Never Enough
by Winchester Mythology
Summary: Sometimes it's hard for either brother to find hope in a hopeless situation. Tag to 12x22 'Who We Are'.


**Hi guys!**

 **At the request of HarperSPN (who luckily loves what I love too!), here's a little tag to 12.22 'Who We Are'.**

oOo

 _"It's kicking down your door."_

 _\- Scream, Halestorm_

oOo

 **Lebanon, Kansas**

 _"NO!"_

Dean's guttural roar pounded through Sam's mind, snapping his eyes open. He blinked blearily, eyes adjusting to the dull red gloom in the library. The emergency lights pulsed gently, their glow neither welcome or comforting. His heart thrumming, Sam looked around, seeing that he was alone. The shout had been in his mind, the broken vestiges of Dean's assault on the bunker's entrance after Ketch has sealed them inside. The elder Winchester had vented his helpless fury on the steel door until his strong shoulders had sagged in defeat and Sam had pulled him away, checking the bruising that was already starting to glare across his brother's knuckles. Anger seeped from his very pores and it had taken every bit of persuasion Sam could muster, whilst keeping his own outburst tightly under control, to get Dean to sit down and let Sam ice his hands. It has taken more self-control to not let Dean give in to killing Toni Bevell either. He'd been tempted every time Dean had suggested it but, finally, her argument about Mary had stopped them in their tracks.

Sam's jaw clenched at the thought of the Brit, his anger flaring.

She'd tortured him, hurt Dean and continued to make their lives hell, but she's cast enough doubt to make them pause.

Manipulative bitch.

Sam sat up, groaning as he shifted, the wood of the chair having dug into his back where he'd fallen asleep. His neck cracked when he twisted his head to the left, an unsettling pop jerking through his tendons. The library desks were still awash with piles of books, strewn haphazardly across their surfaces. Pushing himself up, he padded down the length of the library, eyes adjusting to the crimson gloom. They'd turned off the camping lantern when they'd finished their last spell attempt. Sam hadn't given up – he couldn't – but Dean had stormed off, taking Toni with him and shoving her in the bunker's dungeon where she couldn't do them any harm in the night. Not that there was much point in her trying anything, but Sam wasn't going to argue with making her stay in the bunker as uncomfortable as possible. It was no less than she deserved. Sam had chosen to stay in the library, determined to find…something. Anything. He didn't want her to be right; there had to be something mystical that would work. His plan to stay awake until he found something was ruined by his own exhaustion; it had been a tough few days and Eileen's death was still a raw wound in his chest. He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, pushing down the grief that bubbled. Coupling that with their mom's betrayal…it was all getting too much.

He couldn't deal with it now. There was too much to do and he'd already wasted time finding nothing.

Already he could feel the change in the airflow of the bunker, a dull thud in his head beginning to pound. Looking down at his watch, Sam calculated how much time they potentially had left. Based on how he felt already, he assumed they'd have no more than about eighteen hours left.

This couldn't be it for them. He couldn't let it be.

"Dean?" he called, his voice bouncing down the corridor. Gravitating towards the kitchen, he heard the metallic clangs of pots and pans being bashed together. Rounding the corner, Sam stopped in the doorway at the top of the stairs, crossing his arms and leaning on the doorframe.

Dean was at the stove, his back to his brother, the set of his shoulders tense and angry. Sam didn't need to see his face to know that his expression was livid. A string of empty beer bottles and one whiskey sat on the counter beside the elder Winchester. Sam frowned, noting the way his brother wasn't as steady on his feet as he'd first thought.

"Dean? Everything okay?" Sam asked cautiously, easing himself slowly down the stairs into the kitchen. He came up next to the elder Winchester, eyes widening. "Woah, Dean, hey!" he exclaimed, seeing the white-hot pan sizzling with too much oil, the liquid hissing and spitting at the elder Winchester as Dean waved a spatula at it unsteadily. Sam grabbed the hand holding the utensil. "Give it to me, c'mon, man, let go." He pried it from his brother's fingers, silently thankful as Dean suddenly dropped it and staggered backwards. Sam shut off the hobs, moving the pan away from the edge, wincing when it spat burning oil over his hand.

Turning, he guided his brother over to the bench and pushed him onto it, giving him a single pat on the shoulder before walking silently to the fridge, pulling out the coffee pack. It was half empty and the younger Winchester realised that they probably wouldn't finish it.

 _Don't. Don't go there._

Sam shut the thought off and put the coffee on the side, grabbing the coffee pot and moving to the sink to fill it with water. He turned the faucet, frowning when nothing happened before the realisation hit again. They'd cut the water. He'd forgotten. Clenching his eyes shut, Sam put the pot down on the side, his movements precise, controlled. He stood still, grasping the side of the sink with both hands until he had a handle on the despair that washed up over him.

Pushing away from the sink, he moved to the cupboard, grabbing a packet which he tossed across the table to his brother.

"Coffee's out. Jerky's in," he stated quietly as he sat down opposite his brother.

"Great, so now we get to die without coffee," Dean grumbled, staring down with eyes that would've been bloodshot if the lights had been normal.

Sam cleared his throat, controlling the sigh that wanted to bubble up.

"There are better times to start cooking than when you're blind drunk y'know," he chided softly, ignoring the comment and grimacing as Dean ripped open the packet and shoved a mouthful of jerky in. The elder brother shrugged.

"Was hungry."

Sam's brow crinkled as he studied his brother.

"Dean, talk to me."

"What's there to talk about? We're stuck down here and we can't get out," Dean snarled, his hands clenching into fists on the table. "What the hell else is there to do but get drunk and enjoy the finer things?" He waved a stick of jerky at Sam who ignored it.

"We need to look for a way out."

"There _is_ no way out, Sam!" Dean shouted, slamming his fist on the table. "You heard what that bitch said: we can't beat reinforced concrete, magical dampeners and steel doors. We wasted _hours_ researchin' a stupid spell that _didn't work_. What the hell is the point?! We're as good as dead."

"No, we're not, Dean. There's got to be a way out. If we just –"

"Hell, Sam, be a realist for once! There is _nothin'_ we can do. What the hell's the point?" Dean snapped, his glare livid but his eyes full of a pain so profound that Sam's heart ached. He could understand Dean's frustration: it came through whenever he thought he was failing someone he loved. Now it was more than just Sam that he thought he was letting down.

"We'll get out, Dean," he said quietly but with as much force as he could muster while he looked his brother straight in the eye. "We'll get out, we'll fix Mom. And we'll end Ketch."

Dean looked away, the muscle in his clenched jaw ticking as he reined in his temper. Lashing out at Sam wasn't fair and it wasn't going to fix anything. But, as he sensed his brother's gaze lingering on him, guilt ran through the elder Winchester. _He_ was supposed to protect Sam. Their mom. Everyone. And yet again, he had failed.

How many more times was he expected to fail?

"I just…" Dean cleared his throat, fighting the tears than began to well, "this isn't supposed to be how it ends, Sammy. Not after all we've done. We deserve better than rotting in a tomb while the bad guys get to win."

"We'll find a way," Sam repeated and Dean lifted his head up. Sam patted the table top and motioned for Dean to get up. "C'mon, man. Sitting here wallowing isn't gonna help and you're too drunk for research."

Dean pushed himself up, lurching towards the door, feeling the warm reassurance of Sam's hand on his shoulder. Always behind him, always believing in him. Even now, staring death in the face – yet again – Sam was there. As he gripped the doorframe of his room, Dean looked back over his shoulder as his brother. Sam gave him a final clap on the back, giving him a small smile that didn't reach his eyes before walking away, leaving the elder Winchester to stumble in and onto his bed face first.

As sleep began to wash over him, Sam's look lingered; had Dean been sober he would've seen it for what it was. But, before his mind had a chance to process it, unconsciousness robbed him of his senses.

Sam walked away, balling his fists to stop his hands from trembling. He kept his eyes locked forwards, his breathing even as he fought for control. Dean's words pounded in his head with each step he took.

 _There_ is _no way out._

He just had to make it to his own room.

 _We can't beat reinforced concrete._

Another breath. In. Out.

 _What the hell is the point?_

The crimson lights pulsed around him, meeting the blood roaring in his ears. Quietly, he opened the door to his room and stepped inside, shutting it carefully behind him.

 _We're as good as dead._

Dean was right.

 _Don't go there._

 _I can't not. Not anymore._

The rage, the helplessness that had built up for too long, exploded. Sam's control snapped like wire, his huge shoulders globing as he struck out, his fist slamming into his wardrobe. The wood snapped and splintered, cracking as he lashed out again and again and again. His vision tunnelled, blinding him as he rampaged, destroying anything he came into contact with. The pressure mounted in his chest, crawling up his throat.

 _Don't scream. He'll hear._

 _Come on. Let it go, okay? Let it go, brother._

The ghost of Dean's arms around him brought him back and Sam blinked, breathing heavily. Looking around, he sank to his knees. His brother saw him break before; he didn't want Dean to see it again. Not when he was on the cusp of losing it too. The scream that had built left as a sob, choking him as the tears began to fall. Sam backed up against the wall, curling in on himself as he let go, his anger turning to despair.

 _You want to know what I confessed in there? What my greatest sin was? It was how many times I'd let you down. I can't do that again._

And yet, somehow, despite everything he'd tried, Sam knew he had. It was his burden to bear, not Dean's. Dean didn't need to see this. Not when they only had a few hours left. Dean needed to believe that Sam believed. He couldn't see this. Sam couldn't let him see that he thought his own words were a lie.

If Dean didn't find a way out, they were dead. He knew that now.

Alone in the dark, Sam wept, finding, for a moment, that he had nothing left to give.

oOo

 **So not all that happy, but I wanted to see what kind of mentality they would've had in that blindspot we had in the episode between the spell and Dean's plan. Sam is always trying to be strong, but with something like this, I figure he has to have his own private meltdowns.**

 **Thankfully, we know what happens next for our Butch and Sundance boys!**

 **Please review!**


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